


stick 'em up cowboy

by underfreit



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Arthur Morgan, Canon-Typical Violence, Dutch is a Narcissist, Gun Kink, M/M, Masochism, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:21:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26910562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underfreit/pseuds/underfreit
Summary: "It hadn’t occurred to Dutch all those years ago that Arthur liked danger.  He charged headfirst into everything, and Dutch had assumed that it was a product of being an angry, reckless youth with nothing to lash out at except the whole world. But now, as he walked the length of Saint Denis, he could scarcely think of anything other than the countless times Arthur had knocked on death’s door only to do a heel turn and run right into Dutch’s arms."Or Dutch realizes Arthur has a thing for being in peril.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 7
Kudos: 91





	stick 'em up cowboy

**Author's Note:**

> ok so I recently replayed red dead because reasons, and I truly cannot stop thinking about the "stick 'em up, cowboy" line. it lives rent free in my mind, and pairing that with the chance to write from the perspective of a beloved, insane narcissist really moved it to the top of my "to do" list. 
> 
> i also don't have a beta reader bc I've been out of the fic game for a while, but vandermorgan has pulled me back in; please don't hate me.

_“Stick ‘em up, cowboy.”_

It was silly. At least Dutch thought it was silly. All in good fun, and surely, something that Arthur-- wild, fearless, _delinquent_ \-- Arthur could laugh at. But he hadn’t laughed. Not really. He’d seemed exasperated mostly. He’d responded to Dutch with a gruff, irritated “ _very funny, Dutch”_ , but his eyes didn’t shine like they usually did when he found something genuinely funny. 

He wasn’t angry either, though. When Arthur turned and met Dutch’s eyes, he’d had a look on his face that was… odd for such a harmless joke. It was excitement maybe? Excitement with a dash of fear and something else that Dutch couldn’t quite place even though he’d been thinking about it since Arthur had gone into the saloon without him and left him to wander the filthy, stinking streets of Saint Denis alone.

He walked slowly, found himself constantly looking at the ground. He felt ill at ease in the city, and the sound of his boots hitting cobblestone only seemed to accentuate the fact that he was not at home here and did not belong. Dutch wasn’t even sure where he was going now. Arguably, it was to look for leads on Mr. Bronte, but he found it difficult to focus on work when all he could think about was Arthur and that look. 

Dutch liked to think that after twenty years he knew Arthur quite well. He knew his moods-- how quickly he fluctuated from cool and good-humored to that blaring hot temper that had made him so wild and uncontrollable in his youth. He knew his gait, the sound of his footsteps and the candor of every breath he took. Dutch even knew him Biblically, and he couldn’t help but laugh at himself for thinking of it that way. The yokels and so-called do-gooders of the world would surely balk if they knew he thought of their intimate moments as anything resembling Biblical. For Dutch, that just made it all the more appealing. 

Of course, they didn’t talk much about those moments. Mainly because there wasn’t much to say, but there had been nights-- after particularly treacherous scrapes with the law or rival gangs, where they’d crashed into one another like magnets. They were pulled together by a mix of fear and adrenaline and the supreme, intoxicating feeling of being superior. Superior to the O’Driscolls, the local law enforcement, the wealthy people they robbed. It was hardly ever sweet, or even particularly romantic. 

They’d share rough, biting kisses where their teeth clicked together. Dutch would knot his hands in Arthur’s hair and _yank_ so hard his head would snap back from the force, and Arthur would let him. At times, it seemed like he craved it. Maybe he wanted the pain to remind himself he was still alive? Dutch couldn’t pretend to understand it, but likewise, he couldn’t understand why he liked doing it so much, why he absolutely relished the way Arthur would hiss through his teeth and gasp when Dutch pulled his hair or grabbed his face too hard and let his rings press into Arthur’s skin. 

And then it hit him so hard he stopped in the middle of the street only to have someone slam into his back. Dutch whirled around to face a tiny, spitfire woman looking at him as if he’d killed her cousin (and maybe he had). 

“Watch where you’re going, yeah? You got water on the brain or something?” She snapped, looking about as vicious as one of the overdone poodles that lounged on the steps of the massive townhomes that dotted the wealthier streets of this city. 

Dutch smiled, laid on the charm, and tipped his hat and said, “No, ma’am. Sorry about that.” 

She stared him down for a moment longer, then nodded, seemingly satisfied with his apology. She weaved around him and went about her day while Dutch stood still, watching her go and hoping that his face didn’t betray the contempt he felt for this city and everyone inside of it. 

Still, at the very least, walking the streets in a sea of unrecognizable faces with the background roar of a hundred horses trotting along and ten thousand men all having their own conversations had proved to be internally enlightening for him because he could place that look Arthur had given him now. 

It was more than a decade ago. Arthur was barely nineteen, but keen to prove himself. They were going to rob a homestead. Just him and Arthur. Hosea was starting to pull back from the life at that point. He was less inclined to put his life in danger for a few dollars, and this was certainly a dangerous job. Dutch had found the lead himself: some bartender in Valentine mentioned a group of rowdy young men taking the saloon by storm earlier that week. They’d thrown money around like it was nothing, and once they’d gotten good and drunk, one of them had let it slip that their little gang had just pulled off a huge, successful train robbery. 

Dutch figured any group of criminals stupid enough to go bragging in a bar and blowing money before it had even cooled off deserved to have that money put into better, more capable hands, so he and Arthur slipped off, sneaking through a thicket of trees and brush until they spotted a cabin-- alive with lights and the sounds of young men engaging shouting and living it up. 

Dutch and Arthur stormed the place. The boys were drunk and slow on the draw, so killing most of them had been easy. They’d started tearing the place apart in search of the money, and so distracted by the search were they, neither of them noticed one of the remaining gang members come in through the back door. Before Dutch could react, the boy had Arthur in a headlock and was pointing a gun at his head, threatening to shoot. 

Dutch had been consumed with a mix of terror and rage at that moment. Terror because he was young and stupid and hadn’t even considered the possibility that either of them could die at any moment if they weren’t careful, and rage because the thought of someone threatening to take his boy from him was too much to bear. He drew his gun fast and fired two shots at the boy who held Arthur. Both of them hit their mark, but they were close to hitting Arthur, too. His face was spattered with blood, and he looked terrified at first.

But as the body fell away from him and he got his bearings again, Arthur stepped across the room, across the bodies and the blood and the nightmare laid out before them, and right into Dutch’s waiting arms. Dutch hadn’t even realized he’d been holding them out until Arthur collided into his chest. When they touched, it was like all of Dutch’s senses were heightened. He could hear Arthur’s panting, feel the dead boy’s blood smearing on his skin, and most of all, he could _smell_ Arthur. He found himself burying his nose in Arthur’s hair and breathing in the heady, natural scent of fresh wild mint and sweat. 

“Dutch?” Arthur had sounded young, breathless and utterly unhinged. 

“Yes.” Dutch had looked down at him-- at that time he could still look down at Arthur, and Arthur leveled him with a hungry, desperate gaze. Looking back, Dutch was certain something broke inside of both of them that day. All of his visions of freedom and grandeur and philosophy fell away for a moment, and all he could see was Arthur. Dutch wasn’t sure if Arthur had ever seen anything other than him before, but if he had, he wasn’t seeing it anymore. 

They kissed. It was hard and desperate, and Dutch had brought his hands up to tangle in Arthur’s hair only to have Arthur push him away. 

“Guns,” he said, but he had _that look_ in his eye-- the one that was excited and afraid at the same time. 

“Yeah, okay,” Dutch had said, and he threw his gun to the side. He hadn’t even realized he was still holding it, but as soon as it was gone, they were kissing again. They’d broken apart minutes later, mouths swollen and red. 

“Check the chimney?” Arthur suggested. Dutch had nodded, done just that, and once they had their money-- a couple hundred dollars-- they’d ridden off. They hadn’t talked about the kissing for at least a month. Dutch had told himself it was simply a strange way to say “thank you”, and Arthur was far too stubborn to say anything at all. It wasn’t until later, on a night when they were alone at camp, that Arthur approached him. He'd looked downright shy, but they spoke about it again. 

He’d asked if Dutch had hated kissing him, and Dutch had laughed to the point of bursting before saying that it was quite the opposite. Then he pulled Arthur into his lap and showed him just how much he enjoyed it. There was no danger that time, no _look_ , no sense of urgency, but the memory of that particular feeling hung over them as Dutch took both himself and Arthur into his hand and pulled them over the edge with firm, slow strokes. 

It hadn’t occurred to Dutch all those years ago that Arthur _liked_ danger. He charged headfirst into everything, and Dutch had assumed that it was a product of being an angry, reckless youth with nothing to lash out at except the whole world. But now, as he walked the length of Saint Denis, he could scarcely think of anything other than the countless times Arthur had knocked on death’s door only to do a heel turn and run right into Dutch’s arms. 

Dutch considered himself a man of ideas and higher thinking, and more than anything, he wanted to understand this thing he was beginning to realize about his boy. His killer. He was more than happy to admit (privately and only to himself) when he didn’t know something, and when he did, Dutch always looked to books first. Earlier, he’d seen a woman, all done up with her ample breasts on display, advertising some sort of “specialty bookstore”. As if gravity was pulling him in that direction, Dutch started walking there, leaving thoughts of work behind for the moment. 

The bookstore itself looked very normal on the outside. It was small and cozy, and they seemed to have typical goods. Dutch couldn’t shake the idea that they wouldn’t have a woman dressed in such a way advertising typical books, so Dutch approached the cashier. The man was slight and had his nose buried in a book of his own, but he looked up when he heard Dutch approaching. “Sir?” He asked. He was french. In a single word, Dutch could hear the heavy accent. 

“I heard you have specialty books in this establishment. I was wonderin’ where I might find those?” 

The cashier’s face seemed to light up with delight. He set his book aside, then motioned for Dutch to come behind the counter. “Follow me.” 

Dutch had been certain that there were no people more degenerate than the slack-jawed, Dixie-whistling fools that populated Lemoyne. That painfully slow drawl they all spoke with belied how little went on in their minds, and their behavior-- the inability to accept that a loss was just that: a loss-- was deplorable to him. In this bookstore, though, Dutch was convinced the Saint Denis Frenchman could give the average southerner a run for their money in a measure of degeneracy. 

This, though, was the sort of filth Dutch liked. The specialty section of the bookstore was hidden away in the back. It was packed full of pornographic novels, etchings, books of philosophy on libertine sexuality, and Dutch was thoroughly amused. His attention was immediately pulled to a leatherbound book titled simply: _Sadomasochism._ He wasn’t sure what it meant, but he was curious. 

A cursory glance inside told him that this was exactly what he was looking for, and feeling particularly gracious and slightly aroused, Dutch decided he would even pay for this book. He came out of the shop with a pep in his step and a renewed focus on getting the information he actually needed and getting back to Shady Belle as quickly as possible.

There wasn’t much time to read right away. Jack was still his priority, if only to settle everyone else’s nerves, but once Angelo Bronte had handed the boy over safe and sound, Dutch felt free to let his mind wander again. Arthur had been gone mostly, wandering around doing God-knows-what, and Dutch was fine with that for the time being.

He fell into his new book, eagerly drinking up all of its insights about these foreign concepts. As far as he could figure, Arthur was a “masochist”. He craved pain and fear, enjoyed it and derived pleasure out of it, and as for himself, he supposed he was a bit of a sadist because he loved seeing Arthur hurt so long as he was the one doing the hurting. It was difficult to be discreet about his newfound interest, though. Molly-- sweet, curious thing that she was-- kept buzzing around him and asking about it, and he kept brushing her off, snapping the book closed whenever she came by which only served to set her off. 

Duch spent four days dodging Molly and fantasizing about the moment he could discuss what he’d learned with Arthur before his boy finally showed up again. Arthur went straight to his room, and Dutch followed, book in hand. He knocked, waited for Arthur’s gruff, “Come in.” 

When he entered, Arthur was seated by his bed and sketching in that journal of his. “Hello, there,” Dutch said. Arthur nodded at him, barely looked up from his drawing. They hadn’t had any time for intimacy in quite a while, and Dutch suspected Arthur was beginning to feel neglected and receding into himself to brace for whatever he suspected was coming. He could be impatient at times, but maybe that was only when it came to Dutch. He seemed to be more than willing to wait like a kicked dog for Mrs. Linton-- who Dutch was ashamed to admit he sometimes felt a twinge of jealousy over. 

“I got you somethin’.” Dutch raised the book, and Arthur looked up at it, squinted at the title. Dutch tossed it to him, and Arthur dropped his pencil and let it roll under his bed to catch it. 

“Sadomasochism?” Arthur sounded it out slowly, then looked up at Dutch for a hint. 

“Just read it. Maybe not even all of it, but tell me what you think?” 

Dutch turned to leave but stopped when he heard Arthur’s chair slide across the floor. Dutch turned in time to see Arthur reaching for him, the book still in hand. 

“I ain’t much of a reader, Dutch,” Arthur said as Dutch approached him and grabbed his outstretched hand. He squeezed it, then let it go. 

“Just try it,” Dutch insisted, “and if you don’t like it, no harm done. You can put it back in my room.” 

Arthur nodded. “Okay.” 

Days later, Dutch was in his room, sprawled out on the bed, reading something new and trying his best not to think about how the walls were closing in on him and everyone he thought he held dear when he heard a series of heavy footsteps followed by a soft knock. He smiled, then said, “Come on, Arthur, you do not have to knock.” 

Arthur entered, holding the book. “Dutch?”

For a moment, Dutch was taken back to that night they first kissed. Arthur wasn’t quite as young or as breathless, but the weight in his tone was the same. “Yes,” Dutch said. He beckoned for Arthur to come closer, and Arthur did as he was told, inching closer until he was nearly bedside. 

“Why d’you want me to read this?” 

Dutch shrugged. “Not sure. I wanted to see what you thought, I suppose. See if you thought it was something you were interested in.” 

Arthur squirmed at that, and yes, Dutch was definitely a sadist because he could feel that little coil of desire building in his stomach at the sight of Arthur. His big, tough killer looked completely cowed, and Dutch was certain he was one of the few who could do that to Arthur without even trying. “Why would you think that?” Arthur asked. 

“Because of the way you looked at me when I put that gun to your head. And the way you kissed me after I shot that boy for you. And the way you acted after every single time you thought you might die,” Dutch said. He wished he didn’t sound quite so excited, but even to his own ear, the desire he felt was obvious. 

Arthur nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I… I suppose I liked some of the ideas in that book. Weren’t too disagreeable.” 

Dutch grinned, patted the bedside. Arthur sat. “Would you like me to do that again? Hold a gun to your head? Tell you to stick ‘em up, _cowboy?_ ” 

Arthur tensed. “Molly--”  
  


“Miss O’Shea will not be coming up this evening. She’s sleeping with the other women tonight.” She had been for the past three days. Dutch had wanted to be prepared. Just in case. 

Arthur looked a little sad about that. He was too kind for his own good sometimes. Arthur assigned some great meaning to Dutch’s relationship with Molly, and it was clear that some sort of guilt weighed on him whenever she was shifted to the side to make space for him. Dutch liked Molly well enough. She was beautiful and full of fire, but she could never be Arthur. He would always move her aside for him, and that was his guilt to bear, though he didn’t feel very guilty about it. She had told him once during one of her rages that he derived pleasure out of moving people around like chess pieces. He’d countered that it may be true, but he would always protect his queen. She’d practically spat at him that _Arthur_ was his queen, and Dutch was reminded of why he liked her: she was smart enough to see what was right in front of her. 

“She understands, Arthur,” Dutch said. That was a lie, of course. She acted like she didn’t know, which wasn’t necessarily understanding. Molly was plenty clever. Dutch had no doubt that she knew what went on between himself and Arthur and didn’t approve. She wouldn’t have said Arthur was his queen if she didn’t know, but she cared for both of them enough to say nothing else. 

“Then, yes. I think I do want that,” Arthur said. 

Dutch felt his whole body react with intense arousal. He was up on his feet before his mind could process anything, and he went for his gun belt, pulled out one of his small, sleek pistols and was back on the bed in an instant. He held it up for Arthur to see, then pushed out the cylinder, tilted the gun back and let all the bullets clatter on the floor. When he snapped the cylinder closed, he pointed the revolver at the wall opposite them, cocked it, then squeezed the trigger. 

Nothing. Dutch smiled. “Just to make sure.” 

“You could leave one in. Not very dangerous like that,” Arthur said.

Dutch laughed. “You are crazy. Absolutely insane,” he said, though he was certain his affection was apparent in every word. Dutch looked at the bullets on the floor, considering, then shook his head. “Maybe not this time. Consider it practice.” 

Dutch leveled the gun at Arthur, pointed directly at his forehead. “Go on then,” he said, “stick ‘em up.”Arthur did as he was told, holding his hands up. Dutch leaned closer. He pressed the barrel against Arthur’s forehead, and with his free hand, grabbed the collar of Arthur’s jacket and yanked him forward so their lips could meet. The kiss was desperate-- all tongue and teeth and hard grunts. Dutch tried not to miss touching Arthur like this until he was in the heat of it. It made it easier to tolerate the nights when he couldn’t touch him, but it also made him starved for it by the time he got to do it again. 

Their hands were frantic. Arthur pulled at his vest hard enough to pop a button, and once it was open, he went for Dutch’s shirt, too. He opened it just enough to get his hands on Dutch’s skin and groaned into his mouth when he was able to touch. Normally, Dutch didn’t like to be undressed. Something about it made him feel vulnerable, like he was losing footing, but with a gun to Arthur’s head, it felt a little silly to fret about small displays of dominance and control. So he let Arthur undress him, and with his one free hand, he did the same to Arthur.

Once they were both bare-chested, Dutch used the gun to force Arthur onto his back by pressing it hard into the center of his chest. He nestled himself between Arthur’s legs and looked him over. He was different than he had been last time Dutch had seen him like this: smaller, but still just as gorgeous as before. Arthur was a vision made entirely in Dutch’s image-- hard muscle developed from fighting for Dutch, skin marred with scars from shots and cuts he’d taken for Dutch. He even smelled like mint and sweat because Dutch had told him he liked him that way. It was intoxicating. 

“Arthur, you are--”

“Special. Yours. A vision,” Arthur interrupted with a wry smile. He sat up as he said it, going for Dutch’s jeans and trying to squeeze his dick through the fabric. 

“Easy,” Dutch warned. He pressed the barrel of the gun into Arthur’s chest so hard he was certain it would leave an indent and batted Arthur’s hands away. “Say please.” 

“Dutch.” 

Dutch moved the gun up, pressed it to Arthur’s temple, and pretended to cock it. “Say it, _cowboy_ ,” he insisted. Dutch pressed his thigh against Arthur’s crotch, let him grind against him for a moment before he used his free hand to grab his hip and pin him down. 

“Please, Dutch,” Arthur hissed through his teeth, wriggling. He was strong and big, and Dutch had no doubt that he could easily overpower him if he wanted to. But Arthur seemed to have no interest in power or control. He wanted to submit, to pretend for a moment like he had no agency, and that thought alone made Dutch’s dick twitch in his jeans. 

“Go on,” he said, moving the barrel of the gun under Arthur’s chin and coaxing him forward with it. Arthur moved quickly, tugging Dutch’s jeans open until he finally freed his cock. Dutch barely had time to appreciate the way Arthur looked at his dick with hunger and appraisal in his eye before it was enveloped by Arthur’s mouth. He let Arthur set his own pace for a while, content to tilt his head back and enjoy the feeling, but Arthur stopped. Dutch motioned for him to continue with his free hand. 

Arthur didn’t move, though, just looked up at Dutch expectantly, and Dutch understood what that meant. Obliging him, Dutch put his free hand on the back of Arthur’s head, knotted his hand in his hair and _forced_ his head down as far as it would go. He could feel Arthur’s throat contracting around his dick, squeezing as he struggled to accommodate the intrusion. Arthur seemed like he wanted to be let off, but Dutch pressed the barrel of the gun to his temple as a warning. 

“Stay right there,” he said, holding Arthur’s head exactly where it was. If he had a third hand, Dutch would have pinched his nose shut, too. Instead, he moved his hand and let Arthur come off of his cock with a choked, wet gasp. A trail of spit followed him and another fat gob of saliva leaked out of Arthur’s mouth as he panted. 

“Again?” Dutch asked. Arthur shook his head. “What do you want then?” 

“Fuck me,” Arthur said breathlessly, and Dutch didn’t need to be told twice. They didn’t do that very often. It was hard to make the time to do it right, especially when there were nearly twenty other people coming and going at all times. 

Now, though, they were far removed from the others and had enough privacy to make it worth their while. “Get the oil, and get undressed,” Dutch said, and Arthur did as he was told. 

Arthur watched him, seemingly growing increasingly needy as Dutch set the gun aside and slicked up his fingers. He rolled over onto his front, and carefully, Duch worked one finger into him. Arthur let out a sigh, sinking into the bed. “Good?” Dutch asked. 

“Where’d that gun go?” Arthur retorted. 

Dutch laughed, but he felt around on the bed until he found the pistol again. He pressed it against the back of Arthur’s head as he slipped in the second finger, stretching him. “Absolutely insane.” 

By the time he got to the third finger, Arthur was a squirming, whining mess underneath him, and again, Dutch felt that intense twinge of arousal that could only come from having total ownership over a man like Arthur. He pulled his fingers out without ceremony and quickly lined himself up to push inside Arthur. 

It was slow. Arthur was tight, and Dutch had to fuck him in short, shallow strokes just to open him up. Even that felt heavenly, tighter and hotter and better than anything else. As he worked deeper into Arthur, he draped himself over Arthur’s back, careful to keep the gun pressed against his temple. 

His thrusts got harder, and Dutch lost himself to lust. “I could destroy you, couldn’t I?” He muttered. As he spoke, Dutch pressed his nose into Arthur’s hair, feeling the way sweat had made the strands bunch up. “I could lead you anywhere, tell you to do anything, and you would do it, wouldn’t you?” 

“Yes,” Arthur grunted. 

“Touch yourself,” Dutch instructed, and again, Arthur did as he was told. He reached under himself to stroke his own cock while Dutch kept talking. “I could kill you and you would smile at me while I did it, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, Dutch,” he said.

“Because you’re mine. My boy. You’ll do whatever I want, whenever I want to. You belong to me don’t you?” Dutch wasn’t sure if this was entirely fantasy anymore. Perhaps he was speaking truth to power. He personally found it hard to tell lies when he was drunk on desire and so close to the edge he could barely breathe.

“Always, Dutch,” Arthur ground out between gritted teeth. 

Distantly, he could hear the headboard slamming against the wall, but he found it difficult to care when he hit that spot inside of Arthur that made him bite down on his own hand to keep from crying out. He kept on that spot, pounding into Arthur as he reached his peak.

His orgasm hit him hard, like a kick to the chest from a powerful horse. It punched the air out of him, and he felt his whole body tense as his dick twitched inside of Arthur and pumped ropes of come into him. As he fucked Arthur through it, Dutch involuntarily squeezed the trigger, and he was instantly grateful that he’d taken all the bullets out preemptively. Arthur followed suit after, shuddering through his orgasm and clenching around Dutch’s softening dick while Dutch stroked his back and kissed his hair and whispered sweet nothings about how good and strong and perfect he was into his ear. 

When Dutch pulled out, Arthur let out a groan, then rolled over to look up at Dutch. “You pulled the trigger, didn’t you?” 

“And you wanted to keep the bullets in,” Dutch said. He smiled a little, shoulder checked Arthur. The gun had been tossed aside, temporarily forgotten. 

“You know, I read some other stuff in that book that seemed interesting,” Arthur said. He leaned over the side of the bed to pull a cigarette and a match out of the pocket of his jeans. He struck the match on the bedpost, lit up and took a long drag. Dutch was enraptured by how pretty he looked with all that sandy hair falling in his eyes and sticking to the sides of his face.

Arthur offered him the cigarette, Dutch refused, going for one of his own cigars instead. “Oh, did you? Well, I would be most interested in hearing about them, but perhaps give me twenty minutes?” 

“Ten,” Arthur said, blunt and gruff as ever. He made a finger gun and pressed it into Dutch’s chest. “ _Stick it up_ , _cowboy.”_

Dutch just laughed.


End file.
